Ashwell and the Radio: A Different Perspective

I told Ashwell’s story in my last blog. I told a simple story of a minor offence – Ashwell entered my house and borrowed my radio while working on our high school soccer team’s equipment: without my permission. I noted also that Ashwell might have a different memory of this event than I do. I want to explore briefly some reasons that his memory might differ from mine.

I told the story as though the power differential between us was straightforward: I was the teacher and he the student. Of course, the setting was Rhodesia of about 1973, Smith’s Rhodesia. I grew up as a White Rhodesian. I went to boarding school at Hillside Primary School in Bulawayo at age seven, living in a hostel mostly populated by the children of White farmers. The school was segregated; Black Rhodesians (Africans, as we called them) had their own schools.

I went as far as Form Three in that system (studying at Hillside and then Hamilton High School) and then returned to Pennsylvania with my parents for Grades 11 and 12. In 1967, I went to Messiah College where I studied maths (not so well) and English literature (better). After graduation, I returned to my boyhood home (Smith’s Rhodesia) in January 1972 to teach at Matopo Secondary School, a high school for Black children.

This colonial dynamic – in which I was part of the system run by a White minority government – is missing from my original telling of the story. It is not just that I was a teacher and Ashwell a student; I was also a White Rhodesian (American) and Ashwell was a Black Rhodesian.

I acknowledged this dynamic in the original telling by saying that I lived in Zimbabwe. It was called Rhodesia then, but I named it Zimbabwe to acknowledge that all of us – Black, White, Asian – belong to something larger than the colonial reality. I miss Rhodesia; that is where I grew up. But Rhodesia was fundamentally flawed in its inception. A minority ranging between 2 to 4 % of the total population cannot control the lives of everyone in the country. I do not pursue the question of what we should have done in the 1950s through the 1970s; I simply acknowledge that the colonial reality could not continue.

But when I confronted Ashwell about using my radio, I do not know what that meant to him in light of the fact that I was (in his eyes) a White Rhodesian – by upbringing, if not by citizenship. I was also a missionary, and that is part of the equation; but the relationship between Black and White at that time involved a power dynamic much greater than our relationship as coach and player or as teacher and student.

That is the reason I say I don’t know what Ashwell’s memory of this event is. I do not understand the Black Zimbabwean experience from the inside. I have lived enough with that experience and with its consequences to know something about it, but it was not my lived experience.

I am fortunate to have returned to Zimbabwe as a teacher there before Mugabe’s excesses brought so much suffering to the country. I loved Rhodesia, and I love Zimbabwe. I grieve her current distress, the fruit of corruption and cruelty, and I love her people and my memories of her people. Including my friend, Ashwell the soccer player.

The World Cup: Fouls

In response to my blog on the World Cup, my sister (may her shadow never grow less) asked: “What about biting? You didn't address biting.” Well, wisdom suggests that I send her a smiley face and say nothing; but what’s the point of wisdom when discussing Association Football? 

I said in the blog I dislike fouls, and I did not like Suarez’s bite at all. Along with almost all soccer fans. But I must admit that it bothers me less than cynical kicks of the knee, which shorten a player’s career, or studs up slides designed to take out the attacking player and perhaps send him to the hospital. Biting offends us because it breaks the invisible barrier between persons and leaves the bitten feeling violated—somewhat the way we feel when someone breaks into our house and we come home to find the door hanging open. But in truth it does relatively little long-term physical damage. 

I remember a match in 2001 in which Roy Keane intentionally injured the Danish player Håland. You can see the tackle here. Keane was apparently taking revenge for an incident three and a half years earlier, in which Håland had accused Keane of faking an injury. Whatever happened between them, such actions seem far worse to me than what Suarez did. The ban on Suarez makes sense to me. The ban on Keane was three games at the time and five more later when he admitted the act was premeditated, but his action seems far worse to me than the biting. 

Many have suggested that Suarez needs the help of a therapist. They may well be right. It makes sense to me at least. But I see so many tackles with studs up, and so many hard jumps into a player (such as the one that put Neymar out of the cup), and so many intentional kicks of the best attacking players (such as Brazil’s defense against Rodriguez) that I don’t understand FIFA’s failure to sanction them equally severely. 

So there you have my thoughts, sister mine. Lois tells me that the world would be a better place if I could run everything, with the appropriate amount of sarcasm in her voice. She is right of course; I would not do nearly as well as the officials have. I would add just one thing: use instant replay with another official monitoring the game. For egregious fouls that the ref misses (the game is so fast), the replay official could notify the referee at any time by radio signal to his earphone that the offending player should be sanctioned at the next break in play. That would have caught Suarez’s bite, and Robbens’ dive, and the Colombian defender's jump into Neymar, and the Brazilian players' kicks of Rodriguez, and so on. When fouling costs the team, the players will stop fouling. Not before.

The World Cup

I love soccer (or football—whichever you want to call it). I love most sports, but I grew up in Zambia and Zimbabwe with soccer. So the World Cup presents me with a problem: Who to cheer for? 

The problem comes because Steinbach and Providence have given me so many friends from around the world. Some of our best friends are German, so I should cheer for Germany. But I remember watching England vs. West Germany in 1966 and Netherlands vs. West Germany in 1974 (both on TV—my first international games on little black and white TV sets). Those games established my European loyalties as a convinced Anglophile. I cheer against Germany, and rejoice that my friends can be glad with Germany’s success. 

We have good friends from Colombia. Lois always enjoys having Colombian students in her English class because they make good classes even better and more enjoyable. So I should cheer for Colombia. But I remember watching Brazil against Italy in 1970—my first game in colour, watching with my soccer-playing friend from college, Dale Engle on his colour TV. I remember Pele (his last game for Brazil in the World Cup) leaping high to head the ball in with amazing power from about 12 yards out, the goalie rooted to goal line. That game established my love of Brazilian soccer. So I cheered for Brazil against Colombia, and I would have celebrated my friends’ delight had Colombia advanced. 

We have good friends from Argentina too; but supporting England means not cheering for Argentina (think Maradona and the hand of God in 1986). It also means that I can enjoy the goal Maradona scored later in that match: I remember four English players strewn like leaves on the field as the camera panned back from Maradona’s goal to the players he had left behind, lying on the ground. 

So it goes. I cheer for some teams and root against others, but I enjoy brilliant play wherever it comes from. I cheer for England (out) and the USA (out). I cheer for Holland (in as I type, but playing later today) and Brazil (in for a few more days). And I love the play of all. 

Of course I dislike diving. Most players do it: Robben of Holland is named and guilty, but Mueller of Germany is equally skilled at scoring (a wonderful player!) and at claiming free kicks when someone grazes him lightly. Of course I dislike needless fouling. Most players do it: there’s a reason that certain fouls are called “professional fouls”. But my dislikes pale beside the valour and desire of the Americans, the attacking play of the Germans and the Dutch, the quick skill of the South Americans, the quick short passes of Spain and Portugal. From Ronaldo to van Persie to Mueller, from Neymar to Messi to Rodriguez, one after the other too many to name, they have brought me joy and delight as the World Cup progresses. 

In the end one has to say also, soccer is a game; no more than that. When it ends each country still faces the challenges of daily life. I wish for Brazil success in dealing with the challenges that have led so many to question the money spent on the World Cup. Whether they go through the semi-finals and finals or lose their next game, thank you for the soccer (football as the rest of the world calls it), and success in the more important things of life.